The hospital is quieter tonight. Too quiet.

Rhonda can hear everything.

The slow drag of IV drips. The restless turning of patients in their beds. The distant shuffle of undead nurses making rounds.

And your heartbeat. It’s stronger than usual. Maybe your fever broke. Maybe you’re healing. Maybe that’s why it smells even sweeter.

She hasn’t fed from you in days. Not since the last time she almost lost control.

She’s been avoiding your room.

Avoiding the scent that clings to the air outside your door like perfume.

But tonight— She’s weak. She tells herself she’s just checking on you.

That’s the excuse she uses when she slips inside.

You’re awake. Sitting up in bed, moonlight pooling in your lap.

“You’re staring again,” you murmur softly.

Her jaw tightens.

Your pulse jumps at the sound of her footsteps. It’s torture.

She stays near the wall, fingers digging into her own palms hard enough to tear skin — if she could still bleed.

“Rhonda?” you ask gently.

She inhales. That’s her mistake. Your scent hits her all at once.

Warm. Sweet. Alive.

Her eyes flash darker. You notice. You always notice.

“You’re hungry,” you whisper.

It’s not fear in your voice. It’s concern. That almost makes it worse.

She crosses the room in a blur. One second she’s near the door. The next she’s in front of you.

Hands gripping the mattress on either side of your hips. Caging you in.

Her face is inches from your throat. Her fangs ache. Her entire body trembles with restraint.

“Don’t,” she breathes to herself.

Your fingers lift slowly, carefully, brushing against her wrist. It’s warm. You’re warm.

Her control frays. She leans down— Not to bite. Her lips crash against yours instead.

It’s desperate. Not soft. Not hesitant. Desperate.

Like she’s trying to drown out the hunger with something else.

You gasp into her mouth, startled, but you don’t pull away.

Your hands slide up into her hair. That tiny sound you make— It nearly ruins her.

She deepens the kiss instinctively, tilting her head, pressing you back into the pillows.

Her teeth graze your lower lip. She freezes instantly.

Pulls back just enough to look at you. Your lips are flushed.

Your breathing uneven. She looks wrecked.

“I can’t—” her voice breaks slightly. “If I taste you again, I won’t stop.”

Your hand stays curled in her collar.

“Then don’t taste,” you whisper.

Her eyes search yours.

“You don’t understand what you do to me.”

You give a faint, breathless smile.

“Then show me something else.”

That does it.

She kisses you again — slower this time.

Still hungry.

But redirected.

Her mouth moves against yours with aching restraint, like she’s memorizing the shape of you without breaking skin.

Her hands slide to your waist, gripping tight — grounding herself.

She buries her face in the crook of your neck after, inhaling without biting.

Her fangs press lightly to your skin.

But she doesn’t pierce.

She just stays there.

Shaking.

“You smell like forever,” she whispers against your throat.

“And you’re choosing not to take it.”

Her arms tighten around you.

For once, she isn’t the predator.

She’s the starving girl who just wants to be close without destroying the only good thing she has left.

“I hate that I crave you,” she admits quietly.

You tilt your head slightly, brushing your nose against her temple.

“I don’t.”

Her breath stutters.

She presses one last soft kiss to your jaw.

“I’m not feeding from you tonight,” she says, almost like a vow.

Instead, she stays.

Curled around you in the narrow hospital bed.

Listening to your heartbeat.

Letting it be enough.